Page 6 of Sinful Beauty

I watch as the young man at the head of the table asks for the English menus. One of his friends says, “Hector, je comprends French.” I suspect he’s trying to say you comprehend French, but he’s off on his translation.

Another one of his friends opens a tour guide book and reads aloud, articulating the words vociferously. “Je ne comprends pas.” The table rips into raucous laughter.

“I want to go back to Amsterdam,” one guy shouts to no one in particular.

I shift on my stool, positioning my back to the table, and scroll on my mobile to touch base with friends.

Me: Any update on the job?

Kehlani is one of my dearest friends, but she had to return to the States. Her company doesn’t allow employees to live abroad in one country for more than seven years. She’s now in New Jersey, interviewing for positions within the company. It’s an odd policy, but she’s pretty much guaranteed to find something. Which is better than I can say. I’ve been casually watching job postings and applying, but as an EU citizen, my prospects are best in an EU country, and the job hunt has been slow going.

Me: Almost Friday. Big plans for the weekend?

Rowan is another one of my friends who recently left Geneva for another job. She took a job in Mumbai at a Lumina competitor. She’s offered to keep an eye out for jobs for me, but I’d prefer to remain in the EU.

Thanks to the time difference, it’s late for both Kehlani and Rowan, so I don’t expect an answer until morning.

“That’s a sad face if I’ve ever seen one.”

I regard the red-faced man leaning against the bar, presumably for stability, knowing if he becomes too bothersome, William, my burly friend, will send him on his way.

“Too good to speak to me, is that it, then?”

“Leave her alone mate,” William says, looking over his shoulder as he fills a pint with brew.

“Do you speak English?”

“Non,” I answer, affecting my best French accent.

“Huh.” The guy stares at me and stumbles. Judging from his glazed eyes, he’s still processing my answer.

“Brady…come back to the table,” a man in a jersey with a thermal underneath it yells. “Leave the lass alone.”

The six men at the table appear to be in their early twenties. And despite the use of the word lass, the accent is distinctly American. Based on the ruddy cheeks and booming voices, my guess is they’ve shared multiple rounds of Heinekens.

Watching them reminds me of times spent with my friends at university. I miss those days. Switzerland has been an adventure, but there’s no denying I’m at yet another transition. My close friends here have moved on. The club scene no longer appeals. The Swiss are polite, but at least in my office, the groups are subdivided. There are the expats, those who aren’t from Switzerland, and then there are the Swiss. In the last couple of years, I’ve noticed additional divisions. Marrieds and singles. Those with kids and without. Those just out of university and those who’d rather not stay out until the wee hours on a work night.

I trace the stem of my wineglass, contemplating my dwindling circle of friends. I’m not lonely, but I’m not particularly happy. Perhaps it’s boredom. Or a general feeling of discontent from watching my friends make big moves. It’s been months and nothing in my life has changed. I haven’t changed. My situation hasn’t changed since I moved out on my own.

I need this a job. Or at least, I need a reliable job. One day my father and brother will be released from prison and I’ll need to send them money. I sent Mae money for years and I’ll do the same for them.

I close my eyes and envision the future. Me with a better job, in an executive role, possibly in Lisbon or Paris. My father and brother out of prison, working legitimate jobs and leading fulfilling lives. Me on vacation with no cares or worries. In my mind’s eye, the sun reflects off crystal clear swimming pool water and my toes relax against a plush towel on a lounge chair. No, I wouldn’t sit in a lounge chair. I would swim. And just like that, my vision changes and I’m in the pool, the water gliding around me while I bask in the warm sun.

“William, I’d like a glass of what she’s having.”

The deep intonations shake me from my reverie, and I take in the nearby gentleman. He’s standing three stools away, in a suit. There’s something about him that is familiar, but I can’t place him.

He’s distinguished. Light wisps near his crown lighten his nearly charcoal hair. My gaze follows his off kilter widow’s peak to his dark brown eyebrows and deep set dark eyes. Reddish tones blend with brown in his unkempt goatee, giving him a rakish quality amplified by the upwards curl of the corners of his lips.

He’s casually handsome, but yet not casual at all. He could blend in at my office with the executive staff. But it’s the sensuous smile that warms.

“I thought you don’t speak English?” Those lips extend into a subtle smirk.

My mouth dries. I’m only on my second glass and my brain is fumbling, allowing me to openly stare.

“Wha—?”

“I was sitting over there, when you said?—”

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